A Thousand Miles from Nowhere
by MaverickLover2
Summary: Bart is on his way to Kentucky to speak at the Independent Horse Breeders Convention when he is robbed and everything, including his clothes, is stolen. Not only that, he's on a train a thousand miles from nowhere.
1. Nowhere

A Thousand Miles from Nowhere

Chapter 1 – Nowhere

My head hurt. I recognized the ache; I'd had it too many times before. Somebody was angry, and they'd taken it out on the back of my skull. Or I'd won their money at poker and they wanted it back, or they'd seen me win it and wanted it because, well, they wanted it. I reached around to the back of my head to see what the damage was and winced as my fingers came into contact with blood and other things that didn't belong there. It was pitch black outside and the pain was so excruciating that it took me a while to realize the ground was moving. As the roaring in my head began to subside I knew it wasn't the ground I was lying on. And I wasn't outside.

I made several attempts to sit before I could get upright, and as soon as I did that, I knew . . . it wasn't me or the ground that was moving, it was the boxcar I'd been lying in. Which meant I was on a train. There was no moon in the sky and a cold rain was pouring down, and it took a few minutes to determine I was headed northwest. That was not the direction I was supposed to be going. I checked for my wallet, then my thousand dollar bill (yes, I still carry that after all these years), then my watch. All three were gone. I inhaled deeply to try and clear my head and the smell of whiskey was so strong I could barely breathe. That's when I realized that the clothes I had on . . . weren't mine.

This wasn't supposed to be happening. I'd stopped trying to win other people's money a long, long time ago. I was a respected horse breeder, partners with my brother in the B Bar M Ranch outside of Little Bend, Texas, and one of the happiest married men you'll ever meet. So what was I doing on a northwestern bound train in the dead of night in somebody else's clothes?

It all started some months back, on that very same ranch in Texas when Jimmy from the Wells Fargo office rode all the way to our front door to deliver a wire. It was addressed to 'Mr. Bartley Maverick' and was from an organization I'd never heard of, The Independent Horse Breeders of America. I started to throw it away when Doralice, my beautiful bride of many, many years, snatched it from my hand.

"What is that?" she asked, even as she began to read it. She was quiet as could be while she read it several times over. "Gamblin' man, listen to this. _'The Independent Horse Breeders of America cordially extends an invitation to be an honored speaker at its annual meeting in Orell, Kentucky in September. Details to follow. Sincerely, Jackson L. Henry, President, IHA, Louisville, Kentucky.'"_

I'd never heard of the IHA but they sure must have a lot of money to pay for a telegram that long. Doralice insisted that I wait to see what it was all about, so I put the telegram in my desk and promptly forgot about it. Almost ten days later a letter arrived. Now that was unusual in itself; we didn't get a lot of mail. I handed it, voluntarily this time, to Doralice while we sat in my office. That sounds prestigious doesn't it? That I have an office, I mean. It's in the house, of course, in an unused room about the size of a postage stamp, and it's never gotten any bigger no matter how much the ranch has grown. Blue-eyes read the letter then read it out loud to me.

It seems that someone had recommended me to the folks running the organization. "He's bright, personable and responsible for a whole new breed of cow-pony. Mr. Maverick would make an outstanding speaker," Doralice read. We both had a good laugh over that one. Then she read me the rest. "Please consider this the organization's invitation to attend the conference meeting on September sixteenth to the twenty-second, and to address the convention on September twenty-first."

"Can you write them back and say '_thank you'_ but I pass?" I asked her in my most loving husband tone of voice.

She shook her head. "No. I did some checking up on these folks. It's supposed to be a real honor to speak at these meetings, and you've worked long and hard for this. I want you to go."

Now we've said some crazy things to each other over the years, not countin' the words we said when we got married, but those sounded like some of the craziest to me. The last thing I could afford to do was take almost three full weeks to go to Orell, Kentucky to talk to a bunch of people I didn't know. If I'd known how it was gonna turn out, I definitely would have stayed home. But I didn't, and after a lengthy discussion, my loving wife made me promise I would go. Now I had to figure out what I was gonna say.

If you asked me how to bluff a table full of poker players or how to raise six kids while trying to make a living I wouldn't have a problem. Or even if you'd asked me how to cross-breed Mexican Criollo horses with Arabians, I could talk all night about that, if there were only two of us in the room. But it this was in front of a whole slew of people, and my days of being the center of attention were over.

So I wrote something and threw it away. Tried again and threw it away. Made my third attempt at it and finally had something that Doralice and the kids thought was decent. Threw that one away, too. Altogether it must have taken me two or three months to write the darn thing, and I'm still not sure what I ended up with was what I wanted to say. Doralice threatened to go sleep in the barn if I wrote it one more time, so I finally settled on what turned out to be my last effort.

I packed up and left for the convention on September fifth. Keep in mind I had a three-day stagecoach ride to get to Dallas, where I picked up the railroad. Then I proceeded northeast on the train until I got to Louisville. That was followed by another coach ride to Orell. I would have happily backed out of the whole thing if my wife had let me, but it was a no go. Only problem was I got off the train somewhere in Missouri to switch railroad lines and head east. The switch was made late at night and I had almost two hours in-between, so I stepped into the little café next door to the depot to get something to eat. After a small and unsatisfying meal, I went outside to smoke a cigar. Time dulls everyone's senses, mine among them. The eyes don't see quite as well, the sense of smell isn't as strong, and even if you still wear them when traveling, the gunhand isn't quite as fast. Mine was never speedy to begin with.

By the time I realized there was someone behind me, it was too late to avoid the gun butt, or whatever it was. The next thing I knew I was coming to in a boxcar headed northwest, in somebody else's clothes, with no money, no food, no water, a splitting headache and the oldest pair of boots I've ever seen. I was a thousand miles from nowhere and had no idea where I was bound.


	2. Ray Del Gado

Chapter 2 – Ray Del Gado

There was nothing to do but ride the train and sleep. When I finally woke up the sky was still overcast but it was no longer raining. Something was different but I wasn't sure just what until I finally realized the train wasn't moving. I opened the boxcar door and peered out cautiously. We were definitely stopped and I could barely see the back of a train station in the dim light, but couldn't make out the name on the depot. Not that it mattered where I was; I wasn't home and I wasn't in Louisville.

I gathered my wits about me and jumped down from the boxcar. I have to admit to being a little shaky at first. I was still in pain from the crack on the head and disoriented from being in a place I'd never laid eyes on before. Now that the rain had let up the smell of liquor on the clothes I had on was stronger than ever, and I knew I had to find somethin' else to wear and fast. Then the next order of business would be to find the local law.

There was a lot of scrub brush and vegetation around the south side of the depot and that's where I headed, hoping to lay low until I could get my wits about me. I almost made it, too, until somebody came out of the depot and spotted me. When I was younger and playing poker for a living I might not have been the fastest with a six-gun, but I could run pretty fast. Especially when there was an angry poker-player or my brother chasin' me. Add another item to the list of things that don't work as well once you're older. I was within three steps of escape when I felt arms wrap around my ankles and I went face-down in the dirt.

"Get up," a deep, gravelly voice ordered. There was nothing friendly about the words or the timbre of them, and I tried to twist my neck around to get a look at the person that came attached to both. Bad move. I'd almost forgotten about the previous night's head-bashing, but not quite. I winced as a wave of nausea swept over me and I guess I didn't act fast enough to comply with the order. "G-e-t u-p," was repeated in an even less friendly voice. I did my best to comply – I actually made it as far as my knees before my stomach gave out and I left what little I'd had to eat in the dirt. "A damn drunk," I heard and was grabbed by the scruff of the neck and dragged to my feet.

I tried my best to protest that I wasn't a drunk and was a respected businessman, to no avail. Before I could get more than three words out I was shoved forward by a gun barrel and a rough hand. I may be slow but I know when I'm beaten, and that's exactly what I was. I stumbled forward in the direction the gun was shoving me and as we rounded the corner of the depot I could see all the way down Main Street. That wasn't far and it reminded me of the Little Bend of my youth.

Remember that awful pair of boots I'd found myself in last night? As we stepped onto the boardwalk they caught on something and I pitched forward, landing once more on my face. "Get up and stay up, ya drunken bum," the mouth full of gravel behind me demanded.

I'd finally had enough of the treatment I'd gotten so far in this town and, as I struggled to my feet, twisted my head around sufficiently to catch a glimpse of a shiny, pointed object worn on the man's chest. Just my luck, the local law didn't want to wait for me to find it. It found me.

"I'm not a drunk," I protested angrily, "and these aren't my boots. That's why I keep stumblin' in 'em."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. And these ain't your foul-smellin' clothes either. I've heard it all before. See if you can make it to the jail, where you can sleep off whatever got you into this mess to begin with."

"Where am I?" I demanded.

"Welcome to beautiful Jerome," came the sarcastic sounding answer.

"What state is this?" I persisted.

"State? It ain't a state, it's the Idaho Territory. Halfway down the street on the left is where the town jail is, and that's where you're goin' for at least twenty-four hours."

I started to say something else and decided silence was the better way to go. The jail was no doubt warm, there'd be a cot with a blanket and they'd have to feed me. And I could sleep this headache away. Then when I was better able to wrap my mind around what had happened in the past twelve hours I would at least sound rational. I put my head down and walked, watching where my feet in the ugly boots were taking me.

It only took five minutes to get to the jail, but at least once inside it wasn't as bone-chilling cold. I'd been so preoccupied outside that I was halfway down the street before I noticed how frozen my fingers and face felt. The tin star took cell door keys down from a hook on the wall and unlocked cell number one. There were only two, and as I entered mine, I briefly thought about that cell in Silver Creek all those years ago. This one wasn't much bigger but right now I welcomed it and the cot inside it.

It was too late for breakfast and seemed too early for anything else, so the only thing I could do was remain hungry. "You got a name?" Gravel voice asked.

"It's Maverick. Bart Maverick."

The tin star locked the cell door and hung the keys back up on the hook. Then he picked up the stack of papers on his desk and shuffled through them for a few minutes, looking for a wanted poster on me, no doubt. "How about you? You got a name besides sheriff?"

He ignored me for at least five minutes until he'd satisfied himself that I wasn't wanted for anything. "Del Gado. Sheriff Ray Del Gado."

I collapsed on the cot with as much dignity as I could muster. "Sheriff Del Gado. Sounds like you're from Texas. Ever hear of Little Bend?"

"Nope."

"It's north of San Antone. That's where my home is. I was on my way . . . "

"Go to sleep and shut up, or I'll keep you in there until you do. Got it?"

I didn't utter a sound, just nodded my head and turned my face to the wall. I assumed the most straightforward way to get the sheriff to listen to me was to keep quiet until he was willing to say something besides, "Shut up."

Almost thirty minutes later I finally heard, "You were on your way where?"

"To Orell, Kentucky."

"What's in Kentucky?" Del Gado asked almost immediately.

"The Independent Horse Breeders of America annual meeting."

Another few agonizing minutes passed while he decided on his next question. "If I was inclined to wanna know . . . why were you headed there?"

I sat up and tried to sound professional. "To speak at the convention."

"You some big fancy horse breeder?" The questions were sounding more and more interested.

I shook my head. It had quit hurting, at last. "Not big and not fancy. I cross-breed horses."

That was the end of the questions. Silence reigned for almost an hour before he stood up and said, "Goin' to get some food. I'll bring yours back." He grabbed the keys and slammed the door behind him. I was left to ponder if he would investigate any further. It would be easy enough to verify, if he was so inclined.

When Del Gado came back with food I didn't much care what it was; I would have eaten anything he brought me. I never did care much for jail food, if you could call it that. Some of it was halfway decent but some of it was fit only for hogs.

We passed the afternoon in silence . . . Del Gado preferred it that way, and since I was the one in the jail cell I wasn't going to try and force the issue. Somewhere during that time a young, attractive brunette came to see him, and it was obvious he'd spoken to her when he was gone for lunch. She brought with her a clean shirt, pants and jacket. I'd have given almost anything for a different pair of boots, but that was not to be. She and the sheriff spoke quietly and I couldn't hear what they said.

After she left the clothes were shoved through the cell bars. "Here. Change so I can get rid of that liquor smell." He wasn't the only one that wanted to get rid of the smell; I was walking around in it. Once I had on the clean clothes I felt better and I'm sure I looked better. I guarantee you I smelled better.

Come supper time the lunch routine was repeated. Del Gado disappeared for an hour and brought me food when he returned. I was just about to ask him if he'd sent a wire to the IHA to ask about me when a kid of about ten or twelve came in with what I hoped was their answer in his hands. Del Gado actually smiled at the kid and read the telegram several times over. Either that or he was an incredibly slow reader. When he looked up his face resembled a cat that had just caught a mouse.

"According to this wire, Bart Maverick arrived at the IHA convention as expected. Whoever you are, you ain't him."


	3. The Church Lady

Chapter 3 – The Church Lady

It didn't take me long to figure out that whoever had stolen my belongings was impersonating me. But why? There had to be a big payoff involved somewhere to run the risk of gettin' caught, and I had to figure out what the angle was. No matter whether I figured it out or not, I had to get out of jail.

"Alright, what's your name? And don't give me Bart Maverick again. I want your real name."

I had to think fast, and the only one that came to mind was the old chestnut, "Bart Jamison."

"That's better. You give me straight answers, I'll let you out in the morning. Otherwise, it's for ten days. Where you from?"

"Amarillo."

"Whatta you doin' all the way up here?"

That's what I wanted to know. "Caught the wrong train." An understatement, if ever I've heard one.

"When I let you outta here, do you intend to stay in Jerome?"

I shook my head. "No, I'm goin' back to Texas as soon as I can figure out a way to get there." That was the God's honest truth. I'd run back to Texas if I had to.

"There might be somebody that can help you . . . they call her the church lady. Real names Irene Michaels. I'll have her come down and talk to you."

At last, a ray of hope, even if it did seem small. And maybe Del Gado would let me out of this place.

The night drug its feet as hard as it could, but mornin' came anyway. The window in my cell faced east, so I got the full effects of the sunrise. It was the best-looking thing about this town. To say I was anxious about meeting the church lady was an understatement. I had no idea what she might be able to provide.

When Del Gado got to the jail the routine was the same as yesterday. He appeared to do some paperwork, then he got up, grabbed the jail keys and went to breakfast. When he came back with mine he informed me the church lady would be down in about an hour to see me.

Just about an hour later the jail door opened and I got a glimpse of Irene Michaels. She wasn't at all what I'd expected, a prim, buttoned-up, older lady. Instead she was good-looking with auburn hair, tall and well-dressed. Del Gado made the introductions, then unlocked the cell to let her in. He locked the door immediately. Looked like the only way he was gonna let me out was if I took what she was offering. We moved to the back of the cell so we could talk.

"Mr. Jamison, I've been given to understand you want to go home to Texas."

"Yes, ma'am, that's my intention. But I need a way to get there."

"I can get you to Twin Falls. I have a sister that runs our mission down there. She's real good at getting people where they need to go." Irene gave me a sad smile, almost like she would be sorry to see me leave.

"I'd appreciate whatever you can do, Miss Michaels." More than she would ever know.

"And you'll have to do some work around the church before you can go. But if things work out, I can send you to Twin Falls by Friday."

Friday. Two days from today. And with no one even knowing I was in trouble or looking for me. I wondered just how long it would be before the search started.

"But you have to promise not to drink. If you do, you'll wind up back here in jail. And I won't be able to get you out." There was the stern look that I expected from her. Kind of like the look I had when children disobeyed.

"Yes, ma'am, I can promise that." That was an easy promise.

She stood and went back to the front of the cell. "Ray, you can unlock the cell now."

Del Gado came over with the keys and unlocked the door . . . for both of us. "I don't wanna see you back here, Jamison."

I just smiled and nodded. I was getting out! I wasn't about to say or do anything that might upset the sheriff. I followed Miss Michaels out of the cell and she had a word with him, then out of jail we went, me following her like a duckling follows its mother. There was an old wagon outside, with a worn out looking horse pulling it. We got in and she handed me the reins. "Turn him around and head east."

"Yes, ma'am."

"You don't have to keep calling me ma'am, Mr. Jamison. Irene or Miss Michaels will do nicely."

"Yes, Miss Michaels." If that's what made her happy, so be it. When we got to the end of Main Street the road, if you want to call it that, split into two. We took the turn that went north and continued on it for about five miles. The church, when we got there, was as dilapidated as the horse. I helped her down from the wagon and followed her in a side door. The inside didn't look any better than the outside, but she led me to a back room where there were all kinds of clothes. Women's dresses, men's pants and shirts, children's clothes of all sizes, and finally shoes and boots. Thank god, men's boots!

"I think we can find you clothes that fit better." She went right to a stack of pants and searched through them until she found what she was looking for. She pulled the pants out and handed them to me; they looked like they would fit. Next, a shirt, sky blue and smaller than the tent I had on, and finally boots. Those I got to choose, and I found a decent looking pair of black boots. They fit so much better that I almost cried.

"I'll leave you in here so you can change clothes. Then we'll get to work."

I almost felt human by the time I was finished dressing. The pants were perfect and the shirt was almost my size. And the boots! I was so happy to leave the ugly boots behind. I met her out in the church and she had me moving piles of books from the church proper to another small room. When that was finished I passed out hymnals. "I hope you'll attend this evenings service," she said when I was done.

It had been a while since I went to church with Doralice and the children, but I was going to do everything in my power to make this woman happy. "Yes, ma'am, I most certainly will."

"Good. That's a step in the right direction. Well, I think some lunch is in order before we tackle the garden, don't you Mr. Jamison?"

"Please, Miss Michaels, call me Bart."

"Alright, Bart, then you must call me Irene. Let's go see just what there is to eat." And she headed off down a long hall, with me once again playing duckling to her duck. Lunch was surprisingly good. There wasn't a lot of it, but enough to satisfy me.

We spent the afternoon outside. There was a garden in back of the building, and it was a good size. Despite the cold weather, everything had begun to grow and the ground desperately needed weeding. Which I did. At sundown we had supper and again, there wasn't a lot, but it was satisfying. And coffee! She made coffee and I had three cups. Then it was time for the service, and we went back out into the church. I sat in the very back row and was surprised to find that Irene played the organ.

There was a lot of praying and singing, and I was introduced to the congregation. There were thirty or forty people of all shapes and sizes, including Del Gado. The entire town must have been there. The preacher came out of another back room and gave a sermon about redemption. For my benefit, I think. We prayed again at the end of the service and I received a lot of encouragement to stay on the sober path. I nodded and agreed with everyone, and promised to do my best. When the church was empty I gathered the hymnals and put them away.

Irene had a small room at the very back of the church with a bed and blankets in it. "This is where you can sleep," she told me, and once again I saw that same sad smile. "Goodnight, Bart."

"Goodnight, Irene." She closed the door behind her and was gone. I got undressed and went right to bed. I was bone tired and fell asleep almost immediately, then dreamed of my family back in Texas thinking I was safe and sound in Kentucky. I wanted desperately to get home.

1


	4. Stick 'Em Up

Chapter 4 – Stick 'Em Up

Twin Falls was a duplicate of Jerome, only bigger. Irene's sister, Edith Michaels, was not as tall as Irene, but she had the same sad smile and straightforward manner. She also had the same kind of work for me, and I moved boxes and books all day long. As I was distributing the hymnals for the Friday service, she told me she could get me as far as Ogden, Utah but I was on my own after that. And that she could get me out of Twin Falls as soon as the next morning.

I'd been out here in the wilderness for almost four days. Surely someone must miss me by this time, I thought. Then again, maybe not. Given the length of time I had expected to be gone, it could be another two or three weeks before they began to wonder where I was. I sat through another church service that Friday night, anxious to get on with my journey and see what I could find in Ogden.

Edith had arranged for me to ride with one of the church members, who was taking a load of clothes and household items to Ogden. It wasn't the most pleasant ride, with the wagon bouncing and us hittin' every pothole the horses could find. When I left Edith she'd given me a jacket to wear, and when I put my hands in the pockets I felt something that surely must be paper. I was right, in a manner of speaking. When I pulled the paper out, it was money – three dollars, probably all Edith had. If I was careful I could buy enough food to get me back home. Or I could try to find a penny-ante poker game and, if I was lucky, turn the three dollars into enough to buy a horse.

Only problem was, this was Ogden, home to a whole lot of Mormons. And there was no gambling anywhere . . . not even in the back alleys and darkened corners of the town. So I opted to get something to eat while I figured my next move. I found a little café and ordered breakfast – eggs, bacon, biscuits and coffee. My normal lack of appetite had taken a holiday, and I was starving. When I finished I still had two dollars and sixty-five cents and I still needed a way to get home.

My waitress took pity on me and sent me over to the local stage office. They were missin' a shotgun rider on the route to Salt Lake City, and I took the job. We made six stops along the way, but at least I was movin' in the right direction. On top of that I made a whole dollar.

Ogden had been buttoned up as tight as a schoolteacher, but Salt Lake was a different story. I was out prowling the town when I found a poker game in a little café and was allowed to sit in. I stayed there almost seven hours but I came away with enough money to buy a horse and saddle, and headed south for Provo. By the time I got there me and the horse were worn out. We both needed food and sleep, and I was lucky enough to find a livery that had stalls big enough for both of us to sleep in. There was a small diner about halfway down the street, and I got a meal there before wandering back to the livery. It might not have been a hotel room, but it was warm and dry and I'd slept in a stall many times when I was younger.

When I woke it was dark and raining, and I waited almost fifteen minutes to see if the rain would stop. It didn't, and I decided to go anyway. I'd been wet before and, while unpleasant, it wouldn't kill me. I was about ten miles out of town when I finally thought about sending a telegram to Doralice, and by that time it was too late to turn around. I headed southeast, towards Sante Fe, and prayed. I had to ride through Indian territory and I was hoping that a single rider wouldn't attract too much attention.

I was in luck, or maybe the Indians were in a good mood because I never saw so much as one. It took me five days to get from Provo to Santa Fe, and I have to tell you, I was damn tired of sleepin' on the ground and eating beans. I sold the horse in Santa Fe; he wasn't worth much by that time and after I paid for a meal I had just enough left to get to Amarillo. Or I could send a telegram. I didn't have money for both. Again, not thinking straight, I bought a stagecoach ticket to Amarillo. All I could think about was gettin' home.

About forty miles out of Amarillo the stagecoach was held up. There were three of them, and I tried to take in as much detail about them as possible. Two of them were average height, the third one stayed on his horse but looked to be about the same size. One rode a real nice lookin' bay with a fancy saddle, the other two were both on sorrels. The robber that went through the passengers' belongings had a scar over his left eye. Real nasty lookin' thing it was, too.

I'd been through a holdup once before and came away with a head wound and a concussion. This time I didn't open my mouth except to answer 'yes' or 'no' to their questions. They took what little money I had and shot the driver, just for the fun of it I think. They weren't real happy with what they got from the passengers and the strong box.

After they rode off the shotgun rider took over the reins, and I rode on top with him. We were in Amarillo in about two hours, and the sheriff herded us all off the stage and into the jail to question us. His name was Loren Baker and he was determined to mine every ounce of description out of us that he could get. I should have kept my mouth shut there, too, because he was determined to hold us in Amarillo for forty-eight hours, to see if the posse he was forming could catch the robbers. To that end, he put us all up in the hotel and left his deputy to make sure we didn't leave.

We were a motley crew. There was Mrs. Lorimer, who was on her way to Dallas. She was older than me, short and stout, with a head full of silver hair and the most outrageous hat. Riding along with her was her daughter-in-law, also Mrs. Lorimer, who was much younger and better looking. Sitting with us was Jeff Warsaw, maybe thirty-five or so with a well-worn gun on his hip and a grim expression on his face. Last but not least, besides me, was the Reverend Brant Spanger, who I suspected wasn't a Reverend at all.

The ladies were put in one room, while the men waited in another. Including the shotgun rider, whose name was Fred North. He was a miserable man because he had the run to Dallas left to drive, all by himself. It was a restless group; we were all anxious to get out of there and get on our way. The deputy took us down, one group at a time, to the hotel dining room, where at least we were fed lunch. Out of sheer boredom I got a poker game started, using matchsticks since we had no money.

The posse returned right before supper, empty-handed of course. The sheriff finally saw the wisdom of sending us on our way, only I had no way to get any further than Amarillo. North was still missing a shotgun rider, and I offered to do the job if he would take me to Lubbock, which was where he turned off to head for Dallas. After much discussion back and forth, he finally agreed. I didn't 't know how I was gonna get from Lubbock to Little Bend, but I'd find a way.

While we were riding I was tryin' to figure out why someone would steal my identity and then go to the convention. There had to be a reason; I just didn't know what it was. The more I thought about it, the more my head hurt. By the time we got to Lubbock, I had a real rip snorter goin', and I was happy that my days of bouncing around the country and taking jobs like shotgun rider were over. There were days when I wanted to cry; there were days when I wanted to lay down and die. But there were more good days than bad days. I had a woman that I loved, and mostly great kids; my Pa was still alive, and my brother and cousin lived just down the hill. There wasn't anything in the world that I wanted. Except to be in my own house with my family all around me.


	5. Lubbock

Chapter 5 – Lubbock

As soon as Fred North and me got squared away in Lubbock, he took off for Dallas and I headed for the sheriff's office. I'd been here before, a long time ago, and wondered if John Law was the same man. It wasn't. Accordin' to the door, this man's name was Lincoln Conrad. When I walked in I looked a whole lot better than I had when I was in the sheriffs in Jerome.

"Sheriff Conrad, my name is Bart Maverick. I've got a story to tell you, if you have the time."

He looked up and smiled. That was a step in the right direction. "Have a seat, Mr. Maverick. I just made a fresh pot of coffee. Would you like some?"

I hadn't eaten in almost a day, so coffee would be perfect. "Yes, sir, that sounds real good."

Soon as I had the coffee I began to unravel my story. He sat and listened without comment until I'd finished, then he peppered me with questions. The last two were the most pertinent at this point. "Do you have any money? And is there anyone you need to wire?"

"No, sir, I don't have a cent to my name. And yes, I need to wire my wife."

"Well, the lines are down right now, but we can sure get one off in about an hour. I'm gonna send you over to the telegraph office so you can write it out and then Jeb will get it sent as soon as he's able. As for the money, you won't need any here. Go down the street to Lucy's Café and Diner and tell Lucy I said put it on the city's tab. She'll get you fed. Then you can come back here and wait until we get an answer to the wire."

What a difference between Ray Del Gado and Lincoln Conrad. Of course, it helped that I looked more presentable and less like a tramp. It also helped that I didn't smell like I'd been soaked in whiskey. I thanked Sheriff Conrad and headed across the street to the telegraph office. Jeb was helpful and I put together the following to Doralice: _'On my way home. Be there soon. Love, Bart'_ There was no sense tryin' to explain everything in a few words, so I figured I'd wait until I got home to do that. That, and maybe once I was home I could find out just what the reason was for stealing not only my money and clothes but my identity.

I was on my way down to Lucy's Café when my world got turned upside down. Again. It was the wee hours of Sunday morning, and a whole saloon full of trail drivers had been celebrating in the local saloon since early Saturday. That's when they decided to take the celebration into the street, guns and all. Before I had a chance to get inside something slammed into me and drove me back up against the wall. My left side felt like it was on fire and I looked down to see a dark red stain spreading across my ribcage. As I lost consciousness I remember thinking, "Not now, Lord. Not when I'm so close."

Pain was what finally woke me. My whole stomach felt like somebody had carved out parts of me and left them somewhere. I didn't want to open my eyes; that would make this all too real. And then I heard something that made me want to open my eyes. An oh so familiar voice. And I was sure I was dreaming.

"Come on, gamblin' man. Time to wake up."

There was only one person that called me gamblin' man, and I couldn't possibly have heard her.

"Come on, baby, come back to mama."

There it was again. That familiar sound was what made me want to see the person that was talkin' to me. I opened one eye carefully, then the other eye. I couldn't focus at first, but my ears were workin' just fine.

"Did you think you could get away from me that easily?" Pause. "Bart, honey, it's time to wake up now. Look at me."

And I did, finally. She was the most beautiful sight I'd ever seen. "What . . . you doing here?"

"The sheriff sent me a telegram telling me what had happened to you. I got on the first stage to get here. You've been asleep for a while now."

"How . . . long?"

"Two days since I've been here, and it took me two days to get to Lubbock. Do you remember what happened?"

"No."

"Sheriff Conrad said you'd sent me the wire tellin' me you were on the way home. You were going to Lucy's to get somethin' to eat when some damn fool cowboys came out of the saloon shootin'. A stray bullet caught you in the ribs. I almost lost you to some drunkin idiot."

"Been . . . trying . . . to get home."

"I know. The sheriff told me what happened. I had no idea anything was wrong, but I got worried when I didn't hear from you."

"Stole . . . identity."

"The IHA figured that out when you didn't show up to give your speech; they knew somethin' was wrong." She leaned over and stroked my forehead with her right hand. Her touch had never felt so loving and tender. It almost made the pain in my belly worth it.

"How bad does it hurt?"

"Bad."

Then I heard another voice, one I wasn't familiar with. It was deep and strangely comforting.

"Mrs. Maverick, you might want to step out for a few minutes. I have to examine the wound."

"He's awake, Doctor Fletcher."

"So I see. Welcome back amongst the living, Mr. Maverick. I'm Doctor Fletcher."

"Doc." I murmured as I closed my eyes.

"The bullet caught you right under the ribcage. It broke three ribs going in and another two coming out. I'd say you were a pretty lucky man."

"Luckiest . . . in the world." I reached over for Doralice's hand. It hurt, but I didn't care one bit. She was here and that's all that mattered. "Kids?" I asked.

"Everybodys fine. Bret's the only one that knows what happened. I didn't want to worry 'em."

"Mrs. Maverick . . . "

"I'm not going anywhere, doctor. I've seen worse. We've got six kids."

"Six? My goodness. You must . . . well, you know."

Doralice giggled. "Yes, we do."

"Blue-eyes . . ." and I was out again. The doctor had been poking and prodding and it hurt too bad to stay awake. So I did the sensible thing. I passed out. The next time I woke up the only one there was the doctor. "Doralice?" I asked. I thought maybe I'd imagined her being there. Or dreamt her. But the doctor assured me she'd really been there.

"I persuaded her to get something to eat at Lucy's. She's been here two days waiting for you to wake up and hasn't moved out of this room. I thought maybe now that she could see for herself that you were awake that I could talk her into eating, and I did. She should be back soon."

I heard a door open and steps across the floor, then the door to the room I was in opened and my angel was back. "Food . . . good?"

She took my hand again. "I don't know. I guess. Nothing tastes right when you're not with me."

"I . . . understand."

I guess we were both thinking about the Tims . . . the one that died and the one that was born.

"Well, doctor, when can I take him home?"

Home. Besides Doralice, that was the best sounding word in the English language. "Not for a while, I'm afraid. He's couldn't stand coach travel right now, and probably not for a week or two. You have a doctor at home?"

"In Little Bend. That's just up the road."

"Good. I suggest you wire him and let him know what's happened. Mr. Maverick is going to be bedridden for quite some time, I'm afraid. A wound that serious, with that many broken ribs. And none of us are as young as we used to be, I'm afraid."

I didn't care. As long as I could be at home, with my beautiful wife, nothing else mattered.


	6. Home at Last

Chapter 6 – Home at Last

It was closer to two weeks before I could travel, and then only with my ribs so taped up that I understood why women hated corsets. By the time I was at home, in my own bed, I was beyond exhausted. All the kids that were home came in to see me, then Bret, Uncle Ben, Dandy, Lucien, and Lee stopped by to say they'd missed me. Beau was still on his honeymoon, but Benny dropped by later that afternoon. The last one in was Simon, and I was practically asleep by the time he got there. Pappy sent Maude up to tell Doralice that he'd be by the next morning, figuring that I'd be worn out by that time anyway.

Lily Mae made pancakes for breakfast the next day she was so happy to have Mr. B back, and Pappy arrived with my food. "How you doin', boy?" He asked me, and I had to admit I was hurtin'. I felt better than I had in Lubbock, but still not good by any standards. Doralice finally prohibited visitors, and I was glad when she did so. I went right back to sleep and looked forward to a peaceful evening with my wife.

We had a pleasant evening and I finally felt good enough to tell Doralice everything that had happened. She couldn't believe what I'd been through and apologized again for not knowin' anything was wrong. Like she could have imagined what I had to do tryin' to get home. I couldn't even imagine it, and I lived through it. Maudie set with us for a while and filled me in on everything that had been happening at the ranch. All in all, most things had run pretty well in my absence.

Simon was there two or three days a week, but it was almost another three weeks before he gave me permission to get out of bed for a couple of hours a day. That was about all I could handle. I convinced Doralice to sit with me out on the front porch in the sun, and believe me it felt good.

Slowly but surely I began to feel like myself again. We eventually got a letter from the IHA explaining their understanding from the sheriff in Orell. Included with the letter were my wallet and identification. They'd taken it off a conman named Everly Dempsey who was robbing convention attendees posing as me. They invited me back the following year, and this time when I asked Doralice to write me a _'thanks_ _but no thanks'_ letter, she did it. I had no intention of going anywhere for a long, long time.

It was a good six months before I took Baron out for a ride. That was the day that Simon finally released me from his care, and believe me, Doralice and I made up for it. It was a wonderful feeling, knowing that I could do more than just lie in bed and hold my wife in my arms.

So that's the story of my being a thousand miles from home, and what I had to do to get back there. For the next few months, at least, I've resolved to travel no further than Little Bend – and back.

The End


End file.
